


A New Start

by wkemeup



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Cuts His Hair, F/M, Humiliation, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Torture, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wkemeup/pseuds/wkemeup
Summary: Woken from a nightmare plagued with memories from his time in Hydra, Bucky finds himself standing at a mirror at 3am holding a pair of scissors, determined to cut away the strongest connection he has left to that time. His hair.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	A New Start

**Author's Note:**

> So clearly I saw the new falcon and winter soldier poster 😅and I am # team short hair Bucky because cutting his hair is symbolic AF !!

_The soldier didn’t know his own name._

_He didn’t know memories from stories or his mother’s face or where he came from. He didn’t know how he got here or if this was all he ever was, if maybe he was something else before the mask and the silver arm and the rifle they shoved into his hand._

_He only knew Hydra._

_He knew the cold, dark room they kept him in, and he knew the coffin they’d shove him inside where the air crystalized around him until he was ice and he lost years under._

_He had no memories of something kinder to draw on when his handler of the week would walk through the door of his cell carrying a weapon in effort to assert dominance. He was prepared for the beatings, knew they were coming because it was what every handler did, each with a need to prove that they could control the soldier. It bolstered their ego to believe the soldier submitted to them willingly, like it was because of their emboldened strength that he followed orders and not because of the punishments that followed if he didn’t._

_This time as the door opened, it was a man he recognized. He couldn’t remember much beyond the long baton the handler kept gripped tight in his right hand and the electric shock that sparked on the end when he’d press the silver button. He’d used it on the soldier twice before when he failed to complete his mission. What the mission was, he couldn’t remember. He only remembered the sharp sting of the electric current and the violent spasms in his muscles. He remembered pain._

_The man crossed the room, stalking his prey, and the soldier tried to keep steady. He knew better than to stand. That intimidated the handlers. It gave them a reason to fear him, reason to punish him. So, he stayed on the ground, kneeling, because he’d learned to make himself small. They liked it when he was afraid._

_“I’ve got an assignment for you,” the man growled, thick German accent and a slur of his lips. The soldier smelled alcohol and wondered if this man was meant to be in his room at all. From the door, he spotted two men stumbling in, holding onto the wall for support and laughing amongst themselves. One carried a brown bottle in his hand._

_A boot was stuck out in front of the soldier’s face and he raised an eyebrow questioningly._

_“Kiss it,” the handler taunted, a sickening smirk curling up on his lips._

_The soldier didn’t move for a moment, just staring at the shoe before slowly drawing his eyes back up to the handler. The man’s cheeks were flushed red, his lids drooping lazily over his eyes as he turned back to his friends with a hearty laugh echoing the room._

_The soldier didn’t have many memories to draw on, but he knew humiliation when he felt it. He recognized the sharp ache in his stomach and the heat in his face. He knew these men were off the clock and they saw an opportunity to assert their power over the soldier because they knew as well as he that he wouldn’t retaliate, that he had no choice but to comply so they could do with him as they pleased._

_Slowly, the soldier leaned forward, closer to the shoe and giving into this man’s demands to in hopes to avoid whatever punishment he had in mind if he didn’t, but then suddenly, a wicked burn on the side of his face stung out as the boot collided into his cheek._

_The soldier fell to the concrete, his hair shielding over his eyes as he gripped at his face. He’d had worse before, but this stung no less. He could already feel the welt forming, the area sensitive to the touch. The laughter in the background as he pushed himself back up to his knees made his stomach twist into knots._

_“Look at that! He’d back for more!”_

_“Do it again, Wagner!”_

_“Teach ‘em a lesson!”_

_The soldier remained still. His hair fell into his eyes as he bowed his head, a layer of protection for only a moment before harsh hands gripped into it so tightly he felt pieces rip from his scalp. One of the men shoved him around to the ground, holding him by his hair as another kicked at his ribs. The baton filled with electric current plunged into his ribs and he screamed._

_His voice was raw and rough with lack of use and it only spurred on the drunken laugher. He fought enough to put on a show, to give his body some reprieve from the pain of lying still and taking it, but he was keen enough to avoid using the full of his strength._

_The soldier could have taken all three men down without much of an effort but he knew the consequences he’d face when others found out. So, he let them yank on his hair and kick at his ribs and pour beer on his face, because it was better than the chair, better than Hydra taking away the little memories he had built since the last time he’d been stuffed into the coffin of ice._

_It wasn’t the first night it happened and the men came back for more again and again._

_Some days a hand would curl into his hair and hold his head back as they poured bottles of vodka down his throat. He’d choke on it as he spilled over his lips, tears in his eyes as it burned on the way down and ran up his nose._

_Other days, they’d dump their bottles onto him and his hair would reek of stale beer for days until the smell became so bad, one of the scientists finally allowed him a few minutes to shower. Even then, he couldn’t scrap the filth from his scalp._

_The worst was when they came into the room carrying weapons and tools just to experiment on which instrument made him scream the loudest. They tied him down on those days._

_The soldier was mostly thankful for his absence of memories. He didn’t know how long this had been going on or if the first night he remembered the drunk men stumbling their way into his cell was the first time it happened. They became a blur and he could feel the sharp tug on his scalp whenever he thought of it. Hands gripping harshly into his hair; dirty and falling into his eyes._

_He ran his fingers through the strands to find them unpleasant to the touch. Thick and greasy and smelling of the last bottle of alcohol the men dumped on him. He revolted at the touch. He was about to close his eyes in hope of sleep when the door opened again._

_Three men entered._

***

Bucky woke to sweat dripping down his back and harsh breathes shoving their way from his lungs. Hand scrambling over the side of the bed towards the nightstand, he gripped onto the alarm clock to find it was nearing three in the morning.

He sat up quickly, trying to catch his breath and letting the sheets drape around his waist, the bare of his chest exposed to the cool air of his bedroom. A breeze came in from the window and swept a shiver up his spine.

Slight movement on his right accompanied by a familiar, gentle hum and Bucky looked down to find you sleeping soundly next to him. You curled your hands under the pillows, nose scrunching as you adjusted your position and Bucky smiled softly. He ran a hand down your spine, reveling in the way you seemed to draw closer to him, seeking his embrace, even in your sleep. Slowly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before gathering a deep breath and heading to the kitchen.

It wasn’t a plan he though out very well but it was one he thought of most nights he woke from memories of his time in Hydra. He rummaged through the kitchen drawers until he found what he was looking for.

Searching through piles of saved ketchup packets, junk mail, coupons, and three different wine openers, his hand finally curled around a pair of scissors thrown in amongst a series of misplaced utensils. The silver reflected off the pale light of the moon outside as he studied them. He ran a finger down the side to find they weren’t as sharp as he’d like, but they’d do.

He wasn’t going for something intricate.

He just needed it off.

Bucky made his way back into his room to find you still asleep on the bed. He’d gotten better about waking from his nightmares like they were harmless dreams. There was no more screaming, no more violent thrashing, no more accidentally hurting you when he couldn’t get a grip on where he was, even with his eyes open.

It meant you slept through the night these days. He’d tell you in the morning when the nightmares came to him and you’d kiss his shoulder and whisper sweet apologies in his ear, telling him you’d wished his woken you. He’d smile at that and say he felt better knowing you were there with him and he didn’t want to bother you. You’d argue with him, trying to convince him again and again that he was never a burden to you, and it would end in a kiss that made Bucky’s heart swell until the next time when it happened again.

Clicking on the light in the bathroom, Bucky carefully closed the door, leaving it open just an inch so he could listen for you. He wasn’t the only one who got nightmares, after all.

He set the scissors on the sink, hands gripping onto the edge of the counter as he felt his heart start to pick up in pace again. With a cautious breath, Bucky slowly lifted his head to face himself in the reflection of the mirror. It wasn’t something he did often, didn’t exactly like staring into the face of a man who had caused so much pain to people whose faces haunted him in his sleep.

He didn’t look like himself, not that he had a great idea of what he was supposed to look like anyway.

Steve had shown him photographs and he’d seen the images in the Smithsonian, but even the man in those pictures looked like a stranger to him. This hair that shielded down around his face, while it was clean and soft and flowing down in waves, tied him to a time he saw too often in his nightmares.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, and it was smooth under his fingers. It wasn’t like how it had been under Hydra, he reminded himself. He had tried to distance himself from what Hydra made him to be, tried to take ownership of what had simply become Hydra’s negligence of the soldier, but every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he only saw the soldier.

You’d told him countless times that you loved his hair. It gave you something to run your fingers through on movies nights and play with when you were bored. You liked how it pulled it up into a bun and how easy it was to grip when he caged himself between your thighs. Truthfully, he only liked his hair when it was your fingers combing through it.

Bucky took a deep breath, clenching his jaw as his right hand curled around the scissors. He didn’t know what he looked like most of the time as the soldier. They didn’t allow him the luxury of a mirror and he supposed that was for the best.

But he could remember how dirty his hair had felt, how tangled it was at the nape of his neck, and the long chucks of hair that had knotted together and the roots caked in grease. He remembered the hair that fell into his eyes when his handlers beat him. He remembered the harsh hands that gripped at his hair to keep him still and the burn at his scalp when they’d rip pieces out in the struggle.

As he studied his reflection in the mirror, he looked over the nicks of scars along his eyebrow from the assailant he’d defeated in Brussels and the faded bruising he sustained on a mission with Sam a few days back. He watched as his hair picked up in the breeze as it filtered in through the bathroom window and flowed delicately by his shoulders. It wasn’t inherently bad and he knew you found him attractive, told him as much as many times as he could stand hearing it.

But when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see the healthier, happier version of himself he’d grown into since joining the Avengers and falling in love with you. He saw a black mask covering over the bottom half of his face like a muzzle. He saw hands with dirt caked under the fingernails snatching at him from behind, yanking on his hair because it was enough to get a solid fist full and hold him steady while someone beat him with a baton. He saw grime and filth and Hydra.

He saw the winter soldier. 

Carefully, Bucky lifted the scissors, slipping his thumb and pointer finger into the grips. He parted the blades and held to his hair, slipping a thick strand between them. Watching in the mirror, Bucky took a deep breath as he lifted the blades further up the side of his face, trying to find the right length. He’d sort out the details in the morning, maybe see if Steve had a barber down in Brooklyn who could help make sense of the mess he was about to create, but for now, this was enough.

A strand of hair fell to the floor as the blades of the scissors ran together in a satisfying snip. Bucky let out a heavy breath, already feeling hundreds of pounds lighter and he grabbed onto another strand.

He stood there for only a few minutes, cutting off pieces of his hair until he could no longer feel it on his shoulders or the base of his neck. He cut it until he didn’t sweep down into his eyes. He cut it until hands couldn’t grasp into it in fistfuls but the gentle draw of your fingers could brush through it. He cut it until a weight fell off of him heavier than the hair on his head.

When he was done, he set the scissors down on the sink. His breaths were heavier than he realized and he leaned over the counter for support. Looking up into the mirror, he realized his eyes were red, swollen, like he’d been crying. He reached up and touched his cheek to find it wet.

“Bucky?”

He froze, shoulders stiffening as he heard the bathroom door opening.

You were already slipping inside, leaning against the wall before he could find the courage to turn and face you. You could see his reflection in the mirror, see the hair scattered on the floor. You could see what he’d done. He didn’t need to turn around for that, but he felt a heat of shame press up into his cheeks.

“It’s a little late for a haircut, don’t you think?”

Your voice was light, airy, and he could hear the smile behind your words. It helped to ease the sudden anxiety he felt.

Slowly, Bucky glanced up into the mirror to find your reflection as you crossed your arms over your chest, the smile he had been imagining present on your lips. Your hair was messy from sleep, imprints of the pillow on your cheeks and Bucky almost forgot why he was cutting his hair in the first place.

“Y-yeah, I… I guess I…” he sighed, finally turning around to you and leaning against the sink, “I needed a change.”

You nodded, like you’d been expecting it and you stepped closer to him. “May I?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, unsure of what you were asking, until you grabbed the scissors on the sink. He swallowed, sitting down on the toilet seat cover and giving you the leverage to work. Your hands ran over his scalp, nails pulling shivers from his spine.

“You did pretty good, Buck. It’s almost even,” you said sweetly as you clipped a few pieces on the back of his head. 

He sighed, closing his eyes and memorizing the feeling of your hands in his hair.

After a few minutes, you set the scissors back down on the sink and kneeled down in front of him. Bucky opened his eyes again as he felt your hands tracing patterns on his thighs, the soft curl of your nails raking along the thin fabric of his sweats. He was met with the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen, but he always thought that when he looked at you.

“I’m really proud of you sweetheart,” you said as you ran your hand through his hair, short strands and still just as soft but hundreds of pounds lighter, a lifetime lighter. 

“Do you like it?” he asked nervously, almost embarrassed.

You leaned forward and kissed him chastely on the lips. “Bucky, you will always be the most handsome man in the room to me, no matter what you do with your hair. I want to know if _you_ like it.”

He paused, carefully reaching up to run his fingers through it. It felt odd, like something was missing that should be there as his hand naturally searched for the long strands, but it was freeing.

“It’s different, but,” he sighed, nodding as a gentle smile tugged on his lips, “feels like a new start.”

“I can show you how to style it differently than you did in the forties,” you offered and Bucky’s heart just about melted. You knew better than most how hard it has been to find his own identity not only outside of the winter soldier but also the man that Steve knew. “You used to part it to the side, right? We can try just pushing it back? I know Scott and Clint have some pomade you could borrow. Or–” 

“Why don’t we worry about that in the morning?” Bucky smiled, standing and pulling you up with him. You giggled softly as he lifted you into his arms, stepping over the clumps of hair on the floor he’d take care of later, and carried you over the bed.

Your fingers snaked up into his hair, playing with the short strands at the nape of his neck and brushing out the loose pieces of hair. You kissed his cheek as he lowered you to the bed and hovered over you for a moment, just taking a moment to remind himself of where he was, that even in the worst of his nightmares he woke up grateful that it all led him to you.

“Get some rest, love,” Bucky whispered, kissing you sweetly before crawling over to his side of the bed.

As he closed his eyes, he felt your fingers brushing along his hair, pushing it back and trailing down the sides of his face and swirling your fingers around the hairs at the base of his scalp. When sleep pulled him under again, he was met with warm smiles and new beginnings, dreams of who he could be, and who he was becoming.


End file.
